Market of Remorse

Chapter 1: The Billion-Dollar Hangover

The wood of the desk was cold against Jianro’s cheek, smelling of cheap veneer and stale coffee. He bolted upright, his lungs burning as if he had just surfaced from the depths of a dark ocean. His hands flailed, knocking a half-empty mug of lukewarm caffeine across a stack of overdue notices.

"Where... where is the needle?" Jianro rasped, his voice cracking. He clawed at his chest, expecting the sharp, agonizing sting of the lethal injection or the cold shackles of the federal transport. "Am I dead? Is this the box?"

He stared at his hands. They weren't the withered, scarred hands of the man who had spent the last three years in a high-security cell. They were smooth, the skin taut over young knuckles, free of the tremors that had plagued his final days.

"Wait," he whispered, his eyes darting around the room. "This isn't a cell. This is... my old apartment on 4th Street."

He stood up so quickly his chair tumbled backward, clattering against the hardwood floor. He ignored it, stumbling toward the cracked mirror hanging near the kitchenette. A young man stared back—twenty-four years old, dark hair messy and unwashed, eyes bright with a spark he thought had died a decade ago.

"No way," he breathed, touching the glass. "It’s 2014. It has to be."

He lunged for his phone—a clunky, older model with a home button. His thumb trembled as he pressed it. The screen illuminated, displaying the date: May 14th, 2014.

"Ten years," Jianro said, a frantic laugh bubbling up in his throat. "I’m back. I’m actually back. I’m not the disgraced CEO of a bankrupt empire. I’m just... Jianro. The guy who’s about to lose everything."

His laughter died instantly as he remembered the date. May 14th. The day of the Venn Investment.

"Oh, god. The bank account," he muttered, frantically tapping through his apps. "Come on, come on, load you piece of junk."

The screen flickered, showing a balance that made his stomach turn.

"Three hundred and forty-two dollars," he groaned, sliding down the wall until his butt hit the floor. "I’m the future 'King of Tech,' and I can’t even afford a decent steak. But today... today is the day I was supposed to sign over the seed funding to Qadir. The day I fell for the trap."

His phone began to vibrate in his hand. The caller ID read: Makari Solen.

Jianro stared at the name. Makari. His most loyal friend, the man who had stayed by his side until the very end, even when the subpoenas started flying.

He swiped to answer, his voice thick with emotion. "Makari?"

"Jianro? Man, you sound like you just woke up from a coma. Are you even dressed yet?" Makari’s voice was energetic, filled with the naive optimism of a twenty-something who believed they were about to change the world.

"I’m here, Makari. I’m... I’m awake now. More than you know."

"Good, because Qadir’s assistant just called. They’re moving the meeting up to ten. He wants the signatures on the Venn stocks finalized before the market opens. You ready to be a millionaire, partner?"

"Makari, listen to me," Jianro said, his tone shifting into the cold, calculated resonance of the CEO he had once become. "We aren't signing anything."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Uh, what? Did I hear that right? We’ve been chasing this deal for six months, Jianro. This is our ticket out of the gutter."

"It’s not a ticket, Makari. It’s a noose."

"A noose? What are you talking about? Venn is the hottest AI startup on the coast. Everyone is trying to get a piece of this. If we back out now, we lose the deposit, the reputation, and honestly, probably our lives if the creditors find out."

"Trust me," Jianro said, pacing the small confines of his kitchen. "The Venn stocks are a shell. Qadir Renzo isn't investing in us; he’s using our firm as a legal shield to dump his toxic assets. By tomorrow morning, the SEC is going to start an inquiry into Venn’s offshore holdings. If our name is on those papers, we go down with him."

"Jianro, you're scaring me, man. How could you possibly know that? We looked at their books. Everything was green."

"The books are a fantasy, Makari. A bedtime story for suckers. And I’m done being a sucker."

"But Qadir..." Makari’s voice dropped to a nervous whisper. "He’s already at the office. He’s waiting for us. If we don’t show up, or if we show up and say no, he’s going to crush us. You know how he is. He owns half the city's boardrooms."

"Let him try," Jianro snapped. "I want you to call the bank. Tell them there’s a hold on the transfer due to a suspected fraud alert. Use my name, use my PIN, I don't care. Just stop the money."

"Fraud? Are you crazy? If you’re wrong about this, we’re finished in this industry. Nobody will ever touch us again."

"And if I’m right, we’re the only ones who survive the crash," Jianro countered. "Do you trust me, Makari? Truly?"

"I... I’ve always followed your lead, Jianro. Even when you were sleeping on my couch and eating my ramen. But this is huge."

"Then do it. Stop the transfer. Then call Qadir’s office. Tell them I’ve come down with a sudden, very contagious case of 'common sense' and I won't be making the meeting."

"He's going to blow a gasket," Makari groaned. "I can already hear him screaming. You better have a plan for what comes next, because we’re going to be on his hit list by noon."

"I have a plan, Makari. I have ten years of plans. Just do your part."

Jianro hung up and leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the 2014 skyline looked so much brighter than the one he remembered from his final days. He watched the ticker on his computer screen—a slow, lagging feed of the morning’s pre-market activity.

Venn Tech was soaring. The numbers were climbing, fueled by the very hype Qadir had manufactured. In his previous life, Jianro had seen those numbers and felt like a king. Now, he saw them and saw a funeral pyre.

An hour passed. Then two. His phone buzzed intermittently with frantic texts from Makari, reporting the chaos at the bank and the increasingly vitriolic messages from Qadir’s team.

Makari: The bank is pissed, but the transfer is frozen. Qadir’s assistant has called me six times. He’s threatening to sue us for breach of contract.

Jianro: Let him threaten. There is no contract without the transfer. Stay dark.

Jianro sat at his desk, watching the Venn stock price. Suddenly, the line wavered. It didn't plummet—not yet—but it dipped. A tiny, sharp jagged edge in an otherwise perfect upward curve.

"There it is," Jianro whispered. "A ripple."

He realized that by withdrawing his small but significant 'anchor' investment, he had caused a micro-delay in the momentum Qadir needed. It was a butterfly effect. A minor change, but in the fragile ecosystem of high-stakes fraud, a single ripple could become a tidal wave.

"I did it," he said, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I actually changed something."

The weight of the situation finally hit him. He wasn't just a spectator in his own life anymore; he was the architect. The future wasn't written. He knew every trap, every betrayal, and every missed opportunity that was coming in the next decade.

But then, a cold chill washed over him. If he could change things, could others? Was he truly the only one who knew?

His phone chimed. It wasn't a call. It wasn't a text from Makari.

It was a notification from an unknown number. No caller ID, no contact name. Just a string of digits he didn't recognize.

Jianro frowned, his thumb hovering over the screen. He tapped the message open.

The text was short, blunt, and sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through his veins.

Unknown: Don’t buy the Venn stocks today if you want to live.

Jianro stared at the screen, his breath hitching. He looked around his cramped, empty apartment, suddenly feeling as though a thousand eyes were watching him from the shadows.

"Who... who are you?" he whispered to the empty room.

He typed back a quick response: Who is this? How do you know about Venn?

The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, then vanished. Then appeared again.

The reply came a second later: I know because you aren't the only one who remembers the fire, Jianro. Watch your back. Qadir isn't the one you should be worried about.

Jianro dropped the phone as if it had turned red-hot. It clattered onto the desk, the screen glowing mockingly in the dim light. He wasn't alone. The timeline was already fracturing, and the "cheat code" he thought he possessed might just be a shared secret.

"This wasn't in the history books," Jianro muttered, his eyes wide. "Who else is back?"

Outside, the city of 2014 hummed with life, oblivious to the fact that the ghost of its future was already rewriting the script. Jianro stood up, his legs shaking, and looked at the mirror one more time. The young man looking back didn't look like a victim anymore.

He looked like a hunter.

"Fine," Jianro said, his voice hardening. "If it’s a game, then let’s play. But I’m not losing this time."

The phone pinged again.

Unknown: He's outside your door, Jianro. Don't answer.

A heavy, deliberate knock echoed through the small apartment. Thud. Thud. Thud.

Jianro froze. The door handle began to turn.